This Ain't No Drabble, Son!
by mdevile
Summary: Meta silliness. A rebuttal in the form of fic. Warnings for swearing and cheek.


This one goes out to an anonymous reviewer who flamed my Music Meme Drabbles - sorry! Music Meme _Bits of Fiction_ (You're right anon, that sounds WAY better!) - not for anything that I wrote about, or the somewhat questionable merits of my storytelling, but for my misuse of the word drabble _as defined by **Wikipedia**_. *snicker*

Seriously. Best laugh I've had all week.

Thanks, as always, to my pipe bomb of vitriolic delight, for sharing in the eye roll. Just don't point that thing at me, kay? ;)

And a question: Have you ever been flamed? What was your reaction?

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**This Ain't No Drabble, Son!**

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The summons had come at exactly the right moment. The crew had been run ragged for weeks on border duty and even the senior bridge personnel were starting to demonstrate signs of impending burnout. A diplomatic situation on _Rebuttus Anonreview_ would give them all a chance to relax while Jim and Spock dealt with the issue.

Jim sighed wistfully and considered their host. The Nitpickities were a race of gender neutral humanoids with a history of being difficult and going tiresome with wank at the slightest provocation. The fussy official before him seemed determined to live down to this reputation as he regaled both Captain and First Officer with a litany of complaints over some document sent to them by the neighbouring Reasonables.

"Do you have the offending document?"

A roll of parchment was produced from an inner pocket of the robe with a flourish. An officious, self-important flourish. Jim tamped down his impatience at the pomp and schooled his face in the polite-but-neutral expression reserved for diplomatic affairs, and unrolled it.

Scanning it briefly he couldn't see anything particularly inflammatory in the wording or the contents. Certainly nothing worth getting worked up over. He passed it to Spock with a puzzled shrug, hoping his Vulcan XO could catch whatever it was that had the Nitpickity ambassador in such a tizzy.

"This appears to be a proposal for a trade agreement, Captain. And a lucrative one, for both parties. I admit I cannot determine the alleged insult."

A dramatic sigh was heaved from across the table. "Of course you can't. You're outsiders. However the Reasonables knew _exactly_ what they were doing when they sent this- this atrocity to me."

The ambassador's features were turning an alarming shade of purple, clashing badly with his yellow robes of office. He made a manful (or Nitpickityful if one needed to be exactingly precise, which Jim didn't because it was so not the point – thus, _manful_) attempt to couch his choler and adopted a tone more bent on condescension than instruction. "This 'proposal'," he sneered, "does not follow the format outlined in the sacred text. It deviates in the established length. It should not be called a proposal at all! It is in fact, a _proposition_."

Jim waited for the diplomat to continue. The diplomat had resumed his seat and seemed to be waiting for their reaction.

_What the fuck?_

"Uh... OK. So what about this... proposition bothers you then? Do you think their terms are unclear or unfair?"

"No, no, no, Captain! You're missing the point! The conditions are fine. Indeed, as your Officer pointed out, they are quite lucrative. But this isn't a proposal!" He fluttered his hands and rested an accusing finger at the bold print at the top of the parchment.

Jim looked back at the parchment, brow furrowed in confusion.

**Proposal For Improving Trade Between Nitpickities and Reasonables**

He looked at Spock again, completely lost. Spock spread his hands helplessly, equally baffled by the innocuous text.

"Ambassador Pedant, I'm afraid I still don't understand. Is there a threat implied here that I am missing?"

An emphatic nod greeted his query. "Yes, Captain. A threat. Exactly!"

Jim waited.

The ambassador waited.

Jim sighed. "A threat to what?"

"Why, to standards! To order! To the sanctity of the sacred text!"

"All of that, huh?" Jim's head was starting to hurt. "I don't suppose you have the sacred text here with you?"

"I suspected you might need to review it so I brought it along." He dug around in his robes some more and presented Jim a napkin.

He examined it closely, more confused now. "What's this?"

"It appears to be a cocktail napkin, Jim." Spock offered helpfully.

"That's what I thought."

It was indeed a cocktail napkin. The company logo for Dora's Snack Shack was emblazoned across one side, the other was stained with what looked like coffee and some barely legible ink.

_"A **proposal** is an extremely short offer exactly one hundred words in length, although the term is often incorrectly used to indicate an offer of fewer than 1000 words. The purpose of the **proposal** is brevity and to test the author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space. "_

_"**Proposal**" is also sometimes used colloquially to refer to any short offer, usually in matters of trade, where brevity is its outstanding feature. Some offers, called "**proposals**" by their authors or readers, total as many as 1,000 words in length. However, such an offer should be termed by the more accurate description of "**proposition**", "**bid**" or "**overture**" in addition to the older "**short-short presentation for action**"."_

Jim couldn't help it, he burst out laughing.

"So let me get this straight.. you put an urgent call in to the Federation to assist you over an issue of _semantics_ on a trade proposal?"

The bureaucrat huffed indignantly. "It's a proposition, not a proposal! Standards must be preserved, Captain, or else there will be chaos. The sacred text is quite clear on the matters of proposals and propositions."

"Have the Reasonables ever seen the sacred text?" Jim resisted the urge to use air quotes. It was remarkably difficult.

"They must have! Everybody knows to refer back to the sacred text for all matters of offers!"

"The, uh, sacred text is a cocktail napkin with six different styles of handwriting on it. And a doodle of a penis in the corner."

"I do not understand how this is relevant to the matter at hand."

Jim tried to suppress the snickers, he really did. He just wasn't very successful. "And I don't understand how the matter at hand is relevant to reality. We're even. Look, Ambassador Pedant, it's a trade agreement that will benefit both of your nations. Why do you care so much what it's called if you have no objection to the contents?"

Ambassador Pedant straightened his robes and sniffed with affronted disdain. "Clearly you do not understand the critical nature of precise labels and definitions, Captain! A proposal is supposed to be EXACTLY one hundred words long. 100, not 113, or 151! The person who scribed this _proposition_," he spat contemptuously, "clearly violated the format and its intent to challenge. They did not **work hard** at this. This lazy mislabeling infuriates me! It's a personal hate of mine."

Even Spock's lips twitched at that. Jim satisfied himself with simply rolling his eyes. He'd heard enough.

"I understand that you are ridiculous, Ambassador Pedant. Possibly even silly. Do yourself a favour and stop wasting your time and energy on meaningless debates and examine the... proposition for what it actually is, not what you think it should be called. Perhaps the Reasonables would even be amenable to rephrasing their terminology if you present your concerns in a less... inflammatory fashion in the future, and directly. Trying to act behind the screen of the Federation might be perceived as cowardly, even disrespectful, and actually diminishes the validity of your argument. Right, Mr. Spock?"

"Indeed, Captain. There is an old Earth saying that seems appropriate to this situation. One that you, yourself, taught me." The Vulcan's eyes were twinkling with mirth.

"Oh?"

"I do believe it goes, 'Nut up or shut up', sir."

Jim grinned as he stood. The ambassador probably wasn't receptive anymore if the mottled purple countenance was any indication. He searched deep within himself and found he didn't really give a damn.

"Thanks for the laugh, though. After a few weeks of dealing with life or death situations, it's refreshing to come across something so trivial. One might even say it was inspiring."

"Good day, Ambassador Pedant. Let me know how the ill considered rudeness works out for you in the long run."

He threw an arm around Spock's waist as they made for the exit.

"Shall we go find a nice hotel bed and fuck like bunnies now, Mr. Spock?"

"If by "fuck like bunnies" you mean I can prostrate you over a suitably stable surface and engage in intercourse, then yes, I see merit in your suggestion."

"See, now that's the kind of precision I can get behind!"

"I believe that I am behind you in the proposed scenario, Captain."

Jim may have facepalmed a little inside at that, but he was still smiling as he mused on the importance of tone.

They meandered off into the sunset and the Nitpickity of _Rebuttus Anonreview_ was dismissed, forgotten until such a time Jim needed another good laugh.


End file.
